


Say Hello to Your New Partner

by Anonymous



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brotherly Bonding, Fix-It, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Genre Shift, Partnership
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 21:21:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17231411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: AU where the Primarchs are paired off in order of discovery and their legions are not really merged but just functioning in continuous cooperation, subsequently strengthening their bonds, providing a support network within the twenty brothers, and effectively averting the Heresy.





	Say Hello to Your New Partner

**Author's Note:**

> AKA the Primarch Battle Buddies AU
> 
> Also, partnerships are:  
> Horus + Leman Russ  
> Ferrus + REDACTED*  
> Fulgrim + Vulkan  
> Dorn + Guilliman  
> Magnus + Sanguinius  
> Lion + Perturabo  
> Mortarion + Lorgar  
> Khan + Curze  
> Angron + Corax  
> Alpharius + REDACTED*
> 
> *eventually Ferrus + Alpharius

**(1)**

Legions XVI and VI: Horus and Russ

Horus was already disappointed when a brother of his had been found. He had been aware of their existence since the early days of his own reunion with the Emperor of course, but he had always hoped they had been scattered too far to be recovered. Or dead, he wasn't picky. But as fate would have it, after a mere five decades as the Emperor's only child, he was now going to meet his very much alive and not at all like him or like his father brother.

Despite being a king in his own right and the overlord of a world far harsher than Cthonia, Russ never chafed at their roles. Horus led and he followed; Horus pointed his finger and he dashed off in said direction -- it should have been as simple as that. But not really.

First, there was something special in their reunion; unlike Horus, he had not mourned the loss of his singular status. Perhaps, somewhere deep down, Russ had always believed there were others like him. Fellow demigods created to excel at all things.

And secondly, Horus was not much for staying out of the mud and muck. After a couple battles, the smugness he felt from issuing orders had vanished. It didn't help that Russ was ever so willing to strike at whomever Horus chose. Worse still, it was clear he was having _fun_.

Horus was fed up after three months watching Russ put whole worlds to the sword. So he threw aside his mantle and donned his own armour, marching out to the fields of battle to meet his brother.

Russ beamed at him. Had he a tail, Horus was certain he would have wagged it.

"About damn time," the Wolf King said, and Horus found himself smiling at his brother's contrition.

* * *

**(2)**

Legions X and XI: Ferrus and ???

The rational part of Ferrus knew that there was nothing to be done. It was no fault of his own and no fault of his brother's that things had ended up this way. But the more human part of him, the bits of flesh and blood and bone that kept him awake at night, thinking of how his brother went, stiff-lipped and silent though it was onto certain death, that part raged. You could have done more, it whispered, if only you had noticed sooner, if only you had intervened at the first opportunity.

Afterwards, Ferrus was asked by the Emperor, by Horus, and by Fulgrim, to join up with their respective legions. But at that point he and his men had gotten used to working on their own and so alone they remained. In truth, he did not wish to fill the hole so soon; like the hallway of unshed tears on his flagship, grief, too, was deserving of a place.

* * *

**(3)**

Legions III and XVIII: Fulgrim and Vulkan

Like Horus, Fulgrim's ascension to the head of his legion was filled with disappointment. He was disappointed to discover himself one in twenty; he was disappointed with his Legion's poor taking to their sire's genetic material; and he was disappointed -- after being crowned Primarch of the Emperor's Children -- to be dully informed that the sixth brother to be found would be his partner.

First, he did not think he needed a partner. He had his own style, he own élan. Someone else would be an interference at best and an eyesore at worse. But if he _had_ to have a partner -- and the Emperor made that point quite clear -- then he would have rolled his eyes and offered shared command to the brother whose weapon he had forged (and who had forged his weapon in turn).

Unfortunately, Ferrus already had a partner then. Fulgrim cursed the order of discovery.

Vulkan too, was much disappointed with his brother Primarch. Like Fulgrim, he considered it ridiculous to be paired up by simple order of discovery and like Fulgrim, he thought Ferrus to be better suited for his temperament, skillset, and interests.

Which wasn't to say he hated the Phoenician -- he was a brother, one of nineteen other beings in the galaxy he could truly see eye-to-eye with -- just that they clashed and chafed and argued more than he was comfortable with. Well, Fulgrim rolled his eyes and made an expression of 'see what I have to put up with' at every opportunity -- most of the time when Vulkan came to one of his galas edged with bits of soot from his furnace, and Vulkan spoke only in the case of dire necessity.

With this sort of teamwork, it was all the more impressive that their men sported together so well. Both Legions were small and specialised and there was much appreciation for the crafting and utilisation of individualised weapons for one, and for another, their men felt immense gratitude bordering on pride to have found their respective Primarchs so soon.

And still, they nearly came to blows. In Vulkan's forge of all places.

"I wish I had been fourth rather than fifth," Fulgrim spat after a smoldering exchange of words over the construction of a single-handed mace.

"Finally, we can agree on something," Vulkan muttered, tossing over a glare of his own. He gestured at his take on the weapon and employed an oft-used line between them: "Ferrus would appreciate such artistry."

"Ferrus would appreciate muted colours," Fulgrim sniffed, "And do not think to know him so well, brother."

"You may have given him his title and hammer," Vulkan started and then stopped. His whole form trembled and he found he could not finish his retort for what was there to say? At the sight of his brother, Fulgrim's heart melted in an instant and he ran to embrace the other, murmuring genuine condolences.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry dear," Fulgrim said repeated, "There is much I appreciate about you, and even more fraternity between our men. It's just..." he trailed off, but Vulkan had collected himself and he met Fulgrim's gaze for the first time in their decade-long partnership head-on. There was a spark of understanding and, as if rehearsed, both of them turned back to the forge.

Ten years. Ten long years of snide comments and pretending to be above it all. Three years of tagging doggedly behind their own men and directing the drop pods to land away from the other Legion. How had they lost so much time?

Looking at his brother across the furnace, Vulkan understood what their legions had known all along: they had more in common than not and they were lucky to be given the roles they had.

Some time later, and Ferrus was gifted a matching pair of revolvers. Though he thought the design too gaudy, he thanked his brothers nonetheless for the present and secretly breathed a sigh of relief at the dissipation of tension between the two.

* * *

**(4)**

Legions VII and XIII: Dorn and Guilliman

The two retrieved from Inwit and Ultramar got along well from the get-go. In fact, in the course of their millennia-long partnership, there were only ever three disagreements.

_The First:_

"Rogal," Guilliman called, stepping into the newly-renovated Fortress of Hera.

His brother was immersed in another set of building plans and did not spare him a glance. "What is it?" he answered while bringing up three separate foundation layers.

"Must it be gold? All of it?" He gestured to the walls, the floors, hell, even the doorknobs.

"Of course," Dorn didn't look up, "We are the foremost sons of the Emperor of Mankind. Anything else would look ridiculous." And so Guilliman was left to mourn the loss of much practicality.

_The Second:_

"Father's order did not specify the Thirteenth," Guilliman complained when they received the missive.

"It did not," Rogal agreed. And then his expression darkened. "You're not thinking of splitting the legions, are you?"

"They are separate legions, brother," Guilliman protested, "And there is much work yet to be done for the Crusade."

Dorn narrowed his eyes.

"You just want to best Horus. I can see it, clear as day."

Guilliman crossed his arms but said nothing.

"Fortunate it is that I am here as there will be none of that nonsense. We are partners, as father has said. Brothers-in-arms until the end of days. The Thirteenth will garrison at Terra too."

Guilliman looked as if he might protest, but then he threw up his arms and walked away in a huff, signalling his acquiescence. Left behind in the assembly room for government officials, Dorn allowed himself a chuckle. Though they were discovered within years of another still, there were still moments where he felt himself the older sibling.

_And the Third:_

"Do you remember what you said, which led me to bring the Ultramarines to Terra?" Guilliman asked, years later, when their legions were at the edge of yet another precipice.

Dorn moved so as to walk past him. Guilliman did not allow him the chance; he darted out his arm, catching his brother by the shoulder, and forced him to look.

"Do you?" he pressed.

"I have no time for your reminiscing Roboute," Dorn snapped, more filled with choler than he had ever been, "The forces of the Warp are at our door and I need you to listen to me and hold down the fort."

"I will not," Guilliman said flatly.

Dorn whirled on him, nostrils flaring, and Guilliman raised his hand so as to strike him but instead clasped his arm.

"You were right then, as loathe as I was to see it," he admitted, "We were made brothers-in-arms and where the Fists fight, so too shall the Ultramarines. We go with you, brother, or you shall not go at all."

Dorn heaved a sigh and then threw up his hands.

"Children these days!" he exclaimed, and Guilliman laughed.

* * *

**(5)**

Legions XV and IX: Magnus and Sanguinius

The match between the Crimson King and the Angel could not have gone better, were it planned. Not only were the two of them psykers, but both their Legions suffered from similar mutations in geneseed. It was immensely reassuring, not only to have someone understand that particular strain of dread, but to be actively involved in improving conditions.

There was a kindness too, twined deeply with sorrow and guilt over the suffering of their sons.

"Why is it like this?" Sanguinius had asked him after losing a battalion to the Red Thirst. His robes were dirtied from the blood of his sons and his wings were tucked against his back, weary from the distances crossed. "Why is it our sons alone must suffer for our sins?"

Magnus did not answer immediately; he was more concerned with his brother's armour. After it had been taken off to the forges, he sought to answer: "If we are to suffer, then it is to ascend to heights yet seen. For it is not enough to suffer, brother, but we must look at each failure for ways to advance."

He held out his hand with his fingers pointed upwards and Sanguinius returned the gesture. There was a burst of psychic energy as they shared their recent memories and visions. Similar states of despair were felt, from the Thousand Sons' flesh change to the Blood Angels' Thirst. At the end of it, when they pulled their hands and minds apart, there was the same vein of understanding that had set their brotherhood in steel in the first place.

"Thank you, brother," Sanguinius said, lowering his head to weep, "I do not know how you do it, but know that I shed tears in your place."

* * *

**(6)**

Legions I and IV: Lion and Perturabo

In terms of the faster-than-light travel which the Imperium afforded, Caliban and Olympia were next-door neighbors. It followed then, that their Primarchs were discovered in quick succession with hardly a year between their reuniting. So, too, was it that their legions took to visiting the homeworld of the other.

Perturabo was initially irked with how smoothly the Lion integrated himself into Olympian society. Though he had none of their customs nor any knowledge of their squabbles, he managed to weave into all the right circles so that he could put a stop to intrigues before they started -- an idea which Perturabo had entertained but never attempted to execute. When he brought up the subject, the Lion merely raised an eyebrow and gestured to their Lochosian surroundings.

"Your people enjoy auspice," Lion said.

Perturabo followed his brother's gesture but saw nothing worthy of praise. His brows furrowed and he snorted: "They squander their resources and spend their energy conspiring against one another. Better yet that they were not gifted such things."

"And yet you have built them many beautiful things."

Perturabo flushed at that.

"It was nothing," he insisted, and then, so as not to be too callous, he followed it up with: "I would build its better on your homeworld, if it would please you."

There was a twinkle of green eyes, the most of a smile the Lion had afforded him. "It would please me," his brother conceded. "But let us have a mutual exchange. Bring your high court with you and let me take them to see the forests."

"The whole court?" Perturabo asked. But then he shrugged, in truth, it was a relief to have them off his hands, if only for a moment, and he was flattered beyond words that the Lion might allow him to build a monument (or two... dozen) upon his beloved Caliban. Additionally, he hoped that extended time with the Olympian nobles might open the Lion's eyes to their meddlesome ways so that he might at last have a sympathetic confidant among his brothers. "If you wish, they are yours. You may keep them if you like them."

With such a retinue, the First and the Fourth set off for Caliban.

True to his word, Perturabo transformed the parts of Caliban he had been tasked to beautify. The villages became urban cities with towering spires the likes of which would give Lochos' minarets a run; the training halls which were used to recruit Dark Angels was modernised while the walls of the knightly compound were fortified so as to withstand a continental-grade ordinance. As for the spot where Lion had been found, a decidedly simple obelisk was erected, one which had a parent grasping onto a child's hand carved at its base.

When he was done with the task he had taken on so gladly, he returned to his brother and beamed at his praise. With each new monument, Lion would say he had outdone himself and Perturabo would shake his head, pleased at last with being complimented by an equal, and insisting -- no, no, there was an even better construction around the corner.

What he did not expect at the end of their exchange was the revitalization of his whole court. As it turned out, while he was constructing wonder after wonder, his brother had taken the nobles into the Caliban forests and there, they had all come together as the knights of Caliban must have, to slay a great variety of the remaining beasts. This was what had been lacking on Olympia, Perturabo realised: a grand goal and a greater foe to unite against. Seeing the camaraderie -- true camaraderie -- between his men at the end of it lifted his spirits immensely and he found himself bowing his head to the Lion.

"It was an uneven trade," he sighed.

"That it was," the Lion agreed. But there was no weight in his tone and when Perturabo lifted his head, he caught his brother looking out onto the new training complex.

"Thank you," the Lion told him and Perturabo ached, for how much he had wanted to hear those words from a fellow demigod.

"It was a thing I did gladly," he said, and there was nothing truer than that.

* * *

**(7)**

Legions XIV and XVII: Mortarion and Lorgar

The Primarchs of the Fourteenth and Seventeenth legions did not get along well. They had rubbed shoulders and butted heads and outright refused to cooperate from the get-go. Mortarion thought Lorgar too caught up in details. Everything was overdone and nothing was truly necessary. Lorgar, on the other hand, thought his brother a bore -- one who had read all the books in a library five decades prior and subsequently declared he had learned everything of value and refused to read any more.

Still, there was only so much leeway they could get around one another especially as the Emperor and then Malcador, and then Russ and Horus (so annoyingly in-sync at this point in time one could hardly tell their damn wolves apart), told them time and again they were not allowed to split their fleets.

Cue the current scene: it was the two of them in an otherwise empty laboratory. They were seated across from one another and there was a primarch-sized vial (which meant bucket-sized for a mortal) between them.

Lorgar glared at Mortarion.

The seconds ticked by but neither of them said anything. Then, at last, Lorgar picked up the vial, squeezed his eyes shut, and knocked it back. It burned like nothing he had ever experienced. He knew he had pitched the vial away and could vaguely hear the glass shatter against the wall, but it meant nothing for the fire that threatened to consume him. He screamed and clawed at his throat and swore obscenities at his brother.

And then, as quickly as it had come, the agony subsided. His father's genetic engineering kicked in and he was released from his sufferings. Salvation had come, as it always did. Lorgar wiped the sweat from his brow and picked himself up off the floor, hobbling back to his seat.

Still seated but with shoulders shaking, Mortarion did not even look at him.

"Alright," Lorgar started, but Mortarion only raised a hand.

He bristled at this.

"Brother, I have already agreed to your conditions, will you not uphold your end of the bargain?"

But Mortarion was not attempting to silence him. He was, and Lorgar needed to strain his ears to make out the sound, _laughing_. His shoulders shook and he raised a hand to cover the sniggers that came from his rebreather.

"You actually drank it," the Death Lord murmured, when the humour at subsided. He looked upon Lorgar at last, something like admiration in his gaze, "That formula was toxic enough to burn _my_ lungs and you drank it all."

Lorgar made a face. He would have used loutish words, had his brother not forestalled him.

"Yes, I will hear you out," Mortarion said, standing up. "It appears I have misjudged you brother, and for that I must apologize. Now what was it you wanted to show me?"

Lorgar stood as well and felt a small relief settle on his shoulders. He was still a little frustrated, that those minutes of agony had been worth years of dismissal, but reminded himself that they had time enough. And so he led Mortarion first to the lodges -- secret enclaves on both their flagships which their men so enjoyed (and as they provided additional opportunities to drink poison for competitive fun, Mortarion approved of them too) -- and then to the hangars. The first of the Furious Abyss class vessels had just finished construction and the sight of her was enough to take Mortarion's breath away.

He walked over to the viewing panel and pressed a hand to the glass.

"How long did it take?" Mortarion asked.

"A little more than a decade," Lorgar admitted. "But with your expertise..." he trailed off, uncertain.

"Of course," Mortarion readily answered. He snorted, "And to think I was under the impression you did nothing but read and preach." Lorgar could have sworn to have seen traces of a smile on his brother's face then. "You'll make one for the Fourteenth?"

"Of course," Lorgar answered, "I am honoured that you would ask."

* * *

**(8)**

Legions V and VIII: Khan and Curze

The reason the Emperor was not much disappointed (or concerned) with how well (or not) Lorgar and Mortarion took to one another was because there was another partnership in more dire straits.

The Khan and the Night Haunter did not get along. It was as simple as that. The two Primarchs took one look at each other and realised instinctually that they had nothing in common and no amount of drink nor bloodshed would ever bridge that gap. They shook hands stiffly, as if on opposite sides of a treaty, and parted ways as soon as they were able to.

It just so happened, unfortunately, that -- by nature of being partnered legions -- they were given the same assignments. Rather, one assignment was given so that the two legions might work together to accomplish said objective.

This was what was meant to happen: Curze and the Night Lords would jettison themselves down and slaughter the xenos overlords of the planet and afterwards the Khan and his sheep-herders could clean up.

This was what actually happened: Curze entered the grand palace of the central administration district to find the Khan slitting the planetary governor's throat.

Both of them scowled at one another.

"That was supposed to be my job," Curze snarled.

"I thought you had no interest in petty squabbles?" the Khan asked.

Harsh words were exchanged and seconds after, blows. The two of them needed to be dragged apart by their men as both of them were screaming at one another -- like children, if anyone of higher rank were to bear witness to the scene -- and threatening torture and humiliation to high hell.

The problem was, despite having nothing in common and poorly-matched personalities to boot, there were only so many ways to wage a fast and effective war.

And so it was, for the next thirteen Compliances, they more or less had the same attack plan and it was a flip of a coin which of the Primarchs would secure the target first. By the fourteenth, Curze had resigned himself to rolling his eyes and even giving the Khan a pointer or two about effective assassinations. At the end of the fifteenth, the Khan grudgingly presented his brother with a jetbike of his own, modified so that the Night Haunter's menagerie of torture tools could be slotted into the sides.

Curze didn't smile or give thanks, but he came damn close to it.

* * *

**(9)**

Legions XII and XIX: Angron and Curze

"My son," the Emperor told Corax at the end of their lengthy introduction, "There is a task for you, if you are willing and able. Something which I have attempted but failed many a time. In you, I see the possibility of success."

Corax had been dazzled by his father then. There was nothing he would not attempt for the other and his whole being was stricken with the desire not only to try, but to succeed. Even as he agreed whole-heartedly to the task -- without having heard it! -- a part of him held back. This was the Emperor of Mankind, the being who had created him and his nineteen brothers. While Corax could understand him incapable of all things, the real question was: was there anything which Corax _could_ do, that his Father could not?

Regardless, his father had asked a favour of him specifically and he was determined to accomplish it, to the best of his abilities.

And so Corax was introduced to the brother found before him, the one that had been meant to be his partner as their legions spread the Imperial Truth throughout the stars. He had arrived too late to keep Angron from killing off most of his high command -- a dozen good Terran veterans, lost because they could not raise a hand to their genefather -- and found himself, like his father before him, weeping at the state his brother had been reduced to.

As soon as he saw Angron, Corax knew what the Emperor wanted of him. In their first meeting Angron had flown at him in a mindless rage and then snarled and drooled like a caged beast only to fight tooth and nail against him even though he had no idea who Corax was. He had no idea who _he_ was!

(A darker voice told Corax his brother was hopelessly lost, that there was nothing to be done but put him down. To treat him like the rabid dog he had become.)

But Corax was no executioner. He was a scientist at the heart of things and he reassured Angron's men (and himself, in the process) that he would succeed where even the Emperor of Mankind had failed.

When it came down to it, it was not a matter of brilliance. The Emperor was head and shoulders more knowledgeable than him and Corax would have given all his limbs for the chance to sip from his fount of memories. But Corax did not have an Imperium to administer and their legions were kept well away from the heart of the conflict. Though their men chafed at being kept from battle, he was grateful for the opportunity to truly study the aberrations on the other. His brother.

Corax had the luxury of single-mindedness and it was from this luxury that he succeeded where the Emperor failed.

It took time, of course. Time and multiple attempts. Angron nearly died; hell, _Corax_ nearly died. But when his hands were trembling and he thought the deed impossible, he thought of his father's expression, how plaintively ashamed it had been, to ask this sort of favour from him. And his chest welled up with pride at the task that had been given to him and he redoubled his efforts.

Four hundred and eighteen days. That was how long it took. But by the end of them, he had not only understood the makeup of the Nails, but how to dismantle them piece by piece within his brother's brain, extracting them through the nose. As he was doing this, he thought of the other two brothers that had already been lost and with each metal chunk taken out he promised himself: my partner will not be the third.

When it was done and the anesthesia worn off, when it was just the two of them in the operating chamber, Corax was so weary he thought himself fit to faint. But he needed to see his brother alive and awake and _well_ before he could rest.

So he waited.

Angron did not make him wait long. He stirred with a groan, pushing himself up, and he looked at Corax and then instinctively touched his temples, feeling for the protrusions which were no longer there.

His brows furrowed and he stared at Corax, unable to comprehend.

"Who are you?" he asked with a gravelly voice. Four hundred and twenty days since their first meeting and subsequent spar, four hundred and twenty days since Corax had gained the upper hand only through a jolt from the Nails. Of course Angron had not learned his name in the time since.

"I'm your brother, Corvus Corax," he said, feeling his own throat constrict with emotion. "I'm your brother, Angron."

Angron blinked and then closed his eyes. He squeezed them tight as if willing them to the back of his head to look for the missing pieces. For a dreadful moment, Corax feared his brother would hate him for removing the Nails. Perhaps he had actually enjoyed them? Perhaps he had wanted to die? But then Angron opened his eyes again and Corax was taken aback at the wetness in the corners of them.

"Had I met you sooner," Angron wept, placing his hands on Corax's shoulders, "You could have saved my friends. We could have saved the whole planet."

"It's not too late," Corax insisted.

"It is, it is," Angron answered, "They're all dead now. Dead because I could not help them. Dead because I could not save them."

"Your friends may have perished but the planet lives on. Let us return there brother, and save what lives we can."

Angron grabbed onto his shoulders and raised his head, searching his brother's expression for some reason behind his offer. He bit his bottom lip and then nodded.

"Yes," he said, "Let us save the ones we can."

Three days after Angron had woken and two days after he had assumed his rightful place as the Primarch of the War Hounds, he and Corax waged war on the noblemen of Nuceria. In the almost euphoric state of battle that followed -- for an Angron without his Nails was a different fighter entirely -- the War Hounds were renamed the World Eaters and their two Legions broke bread over the funeral pyres of the Nucerian slavemasters.

* * *

**(10)**

Legions X and XX: Ferrus and Alpharius

The Vengeful Spirit was docking on Mars when Alpharius received the missive. The nineteenth brother to be found and the master of the second had been stricken from the records and he was to be paired with the partner of the eleventh, Ferrus Manus of the Iron Hands. Horus and Russ, the ones who had found him, were by his side as he received the information. He had only met the two of them and could not hold back a shiver of trepidation. His original partner had perished and now his father -- who he had yet to meet -- had decided to pair the spares.

He read the transmission and then looked up.

"What is he like?" he asked the brothers that were on-hand.

Horus and Russ exchanged looks. Alpharius felt a twinge of distance, one that he had hoped his own partnership might bridge.

"Ferrus..." Russ started.

"He's one of a kind," Horus continued.

"Always tinkering in his frozen forge."

"The sort you'd want on your side in a fight."

"His eyes!"

"And his hands!"

"They're silver! Like, silver like this or that," Russ pointed as various Mechanicum gadgets. "Oh, and he's big. Bigger than me and Horus, for sure."

"That will be a sight to see," Horus mused. And then, sensing Alpharius' discomfort, he patted his last-recovered sibling on the back, "You've no reason to fret, Alpharius," he reassured, "Ferrus is among the best of us. Your men will be equipped with the finest the Imperium has to offer."

The vision which Russ and Horus presented to him of his partner-to-be were wholly inaccurate. This was before the Remembrancer Mandate was far-spread (in fact, the Sixth and Sixteenth Legions were reconvening at Terra for the purpose of taking said units on board -- something Russ was still stewing over) and picts of the Primarchs were few and far between. Ferrus, as Alpharius imagined him to be, was a mountain of a man, twice the size of Russ and Horus (who were already head and shoulders taller than him) with hands and eyes of machine-gun metal.

After arriving on Terra, he was swept into the Emperor's chambers and granted a private audience with his father. Throughout their conversation, his dawning partnership was the farthest thing from his mind and, as Horus and Russ warned, by the end of it, he wanted nothing more than to stay by the Emperor's side forevermore. Being aware of the desire did nothing to diminish it and he found himself blinking back tears as the Emperor introduced him to the First Captain of the Alpha Legion, his second in command. Formalities were exchanged and then, at last, the great doors were flung open as the Primarch of the Iron Hands strode in with ten of his honour guard flanking each side.

He was not as large as Alpharius imagined, but his hands -- and his _eyes_! They were like nothing he had ever seen, nothing he could describe or replicate. Ferrus and his Morlocks stopped before Alpharius and the Gorgon looked at last upon the Lord of Serpents.

"So," Ferrus said, "You are the last brother to be found." He extended his hand and Alpharius dumbly did the same, watching as his hand was practically swallowed by what looked like liquid mercury. "I am Ferrus. Ferrus Manus. And these overprotective children are my Morlock guards," he gestured to said terminators and waited for the insolence that never came.

Alpharius squeezed his brother's hand, numbly aware of how warm it was, its steel-like appearance notwithstanding.

"I am Alpharius," he said upon finding his voice, "Primarch of the Alpha Legion. I do not know much of how the Emperor wages war, nor of the dealings of the Imperium, and --"

Ferrus clapped him on the shoulder then, chuckling heartily.

"Be at ease, brother," the Gorgon said to him, "There are no rules. The point of war is to win, that's all there is to it!"

And as Ferrus stepped forward to embrace him, Alpharius thought: letters of man, the brute seems to like me. And then, as he found himself returning the gesture, he thought: and I know I will like him too. His initial judgment proved to be sound, as it so often was and the two of them would go on to enjoy their silent sort of company.

* * *

**Coda: Ferrus, Alpharius, and Omegon**

(AKA the anticlimax)

Ferrus was easy individual to like. It was even easier to appreciate his attention to detail and his superhuman steadfastness. He never wavered and never budged. In every conflict and on each battlefield, Alpharius became used to seeing his older brother's back, covered with blood and mud and xenos gunk, but stoically plodding forward all the same.

It was three years into their partnership, when the Omegon was just being constructed, when he confessed to his twin that he wanted Ferrus brought in on their secret.

"I agree," Omegon said without any surprise. "It is time."

Alpharius smiled and held out his hand. His twin took it.

"I am Alpharius," he said.

"And I am Alpharius too," Omegon answered.

They put on their helmets and exited the private quarters of Captain Nemo of the ninteenth company. Ferrus had no complaints, no comments even, when Alpharius had begun using subversive tactics in their battles, and made no mention of the fact (though the twins were certain he was aware of the switch) when Alpha Legionaires began to trickle in, never more than half a dozen at a time, blending in with the command structure of the Fist of Iron.

The two of them teleported on board the Iron Hands' flagship and walked into Ferrus' forge. As usual, their older brother was working on some other tool of war, in this case, he was wedged underneath a Malcador, fiddling with some component between the wheels.

The twins traded glances and then, as one, removed their helmets and cleared their throats.

"Just a minute," Ferrus muttered, "This damned wrench is frozen in place..." it was stuck so, likely because he enjoyed keeping his forge in Medusan conditions. After a while, it seemed he succeeded in loosening the bolt, well enough that the Malcador puttered in response. Then he slid himself out from underneath the vehicle, covered in soot and reeking of engine oil, and looked from one twin to the next.

"Asirnoth's tooth, both of you at once?" he asked. "Alright, what is this about?"

This was not the response the twins were expecting.

"What do you mean, both of us at once?" Alpharius asked.

"I mean what I mean," Ferrus shrugged, jerking his head at Omegon, "So when it's the two of you together, do you let your brother do all the talking?"

Alpharius looked at Omegon.

"You remember me?" Omegon asked.

"Of course," Ferrus snorted. "In fact, I met you first, didn't I?" he gestured at Alpharius, "I only got to see you when our men touched base at Yasbahar."

Omegon pursed his lips, pleased despite himself. Clearly they were a ways away from being _Legion_ if Ferrus could tell the two of them apart.

"Well, this certainly spoils the element of surprise," Alpharius complained.

"Surprise?" Ferrus repeated, furrowing his brows, "What surprise?"

"That there's two of us. Well, that we're two separate people."

"Of course you're two separate people, do you think me blind?" And for the first time, Alpharius wondered if the Gorgon's famed eyes were capable of seeing things on a different spectrum. "Now, I'll admit it's a bit muddled since you're both Alpharius and all but I've just labelled you as Alpharius-Major and you as Alpharius-Minor." He pointed at Omegon and Alpharius respectively, causing the twin primarchs to splutter and do a double-take.

"I'm Omegon!"

"And _I'm_ Alpharius!"

Leave to Ferrus, the two of them thought, to make them insist on such a distinction.

"Well that's a lot easier," Ferrus noted, rolling his eyes, "Why didn't you say so from the first time?"

The twins exchanged glances again.

"It's supposed to be a secret," Omegon started.

"Yes, it is imperative for our diversionary tactics that he does not exist," Alpharius added.

"So could you refrain from calling me Omegon in earshot of others?"

Ferrus threw up his hands, "I can't believe you interrupted my work for this! Children, both of you! I'll call you whatever I damn please, now either get out or pick up a wrench and help me with the other tread!"

What could they do after a demand like that? They traded glances yet again before doing as told. Which is to say, they picked up nearby wrenches and huddled with their brother underneath the tank.


End file.
